I Can't Change

The bad thing about me is that I am emotional.
The good thing about me is that I am emotional. 

I had this conversation with a good friend almost two years ago.
I have never felt so liberated in my life.

I am emotional.

No fighting it. No denying it. No trying to justify why I cried or yelled or ran like f*cking hell.
No feeling weird that I can't stop smiling at the sun or want to dance beneath the water. No trying to contain the laughter. No worrying about the wrinkles forming. No feeling guilty about the extreme pleasure.

I am emotional.

When the four brothers came to my house every day for a week asking for lunch, my stomach hurt and I had trouble eating myself.

When my ex-boyfriend said he was coming to see me, driving almost five hours from the comfort of his air conditioned home, to stay with me and the cows and my outhouse and my scorpion-infested room, I sang with joy all day long with the music on, decorating the grey walls with the most colorful pages of the magazines I could find and I threw water all over the floor to keep the dust down.

For a very long time
I tried to change
This part of me

That is me.

There is nothing wrong with change. Everyday there is change. A flower blooms, is pollinated and closes. Maybe the petals fall.
Change is good.
Change is inevitable.

The cells inside my body change. My muscles stretch. My bones crack. My perspective shifts. I let go of old habits, like binge drinking and binge-eating-ice cream. Sometimes, I relapse. Everyday I change.
I set my intentions on something new. And one day, I can speak spanish.
Everyday I am something new.

But trying to change a part of me
That is me
Is a lost-cause.

Trying to change a part of me
Because someone else does not appreciate me
Just as I am
Is not my battle.

I am emotional.

So, I can be happy just watching the sun rise. I can put on good music and run until I feel a deep, freeing ecstasy. I can get high by standing on my head, seeing the world from this new and inverted perspective. I can dedicate my whole day to your peace of mind, because I can't eat when I know you are hungry. I can make you laugh like hell because finding uninhibited joy in life is contagious and I will certainly die because of this and I am not afraid of that. I can touch you with my hands and you will know my heart. I can look at you, and you will see me, because my eyes have no book cover and you will instantly see the truth of my novel.

I don't know if any of this is good or bad.

To be honest, sometimes I don't want the feelings...the pain. I don't want the stomach-twisting that I get when I hear that you don't want to live anymore. I don't want the tears that form when I see a dog with knotted hair sleeping outside an unused telephone booth outside the local bakery. I don't want to hold the beautiful babies in the orphanage because I want to take them all home and I know that I cannot.

But I still do it all. And I still feel it all.
Because this is me.

Sometimes, I don't even want the bliss, the ecstasy, the intense feeling of joy and pleasure and excitement. Because at some point later I feel I do not deserve it.

These are the things I learned somewhere, somehow
At some point
When I started to chase and follow something else
That wasn't my own heart
My own me.

The things: the doubt, the fear, the self-judgment, the un-acceptance
These are the things I learned
When I forgot to love myself.

So, this "being emotional", I really don't know if it is good or bad.

But I know I cannot change it.

I am emotional.

And, perhaps, with time I have learned to tone down my excitement (okay, by this I mean my anger or frustration) when someone says something that ignites my passion...

I am well aware that I still need some work in this area...

But I have learned that "trying to change" because at some point I felt unworthy,
because of how someone else judged me
Or even how I judged myself
This will not work.

I will change naturally,
Organically

By accepting myself 
as I am.
Without attachment to how others fail to accept me...
(this is not your battle Jaime!)

...Living conscious
Setting intentions
from the most authentic place within me
And taking actions
To be my most true-to-myself me.
I will unfold with change.

Right now
I am emotional.

That is who I am today.
And probably tomorrow.
I may not be next month...
Or, I could be next year
I'm not sure.

Everyday I am changing...

Unfolding
Into who I am
And who I will become

And everyday

I am just as I am.

(Enter song: "'cause I can't change, even if I try, even if I wanted to...")

Don't Do Yoga

Don't do Yoga.

Don't put on tight pants. Don't roll out your mat. Don't meditate. Don't fold your hands in front of your heart. And definitely don't say Namaste.

Don't try to let go.
Don't try to open up.
Don't try to do what the teacher is doing...
What I am doing....
Don't try to do what I am doing.

Don't do Yoga.

Also, don't call it Yoga.

Don't attach any connotations to it either.
Don't form an image in your mind
Of what Yoga looks like
Or what you are supposed to look like while you are doing it

Don't think you "need to be flexible"
Or zen
Or strong
Or centered.

Don't think about it.

Don't let it cross your mind. Don't breathe deep and say, "I am now letting go of stress."
Don't convince yourself that you are more grounded.
Don't look at the lady
In the front of the room in awe and admiration.

Don't say to yourself, "One day I will do Yoga like her."

Don't even do Yoga.

Don't search for it. The flexibility. The strength. The head stand. The perfect alignment. The firm abs. The deep back bend. The emotional intelligence.
Don't long for it. The long legs. The peace of mind. The stress-free-living. The acceptance. The non-judgement.
Don't expect it. Any of it.

Most importantly. Don't listen to me.

Not a thing that I say. Don't listen to me.
Don't do any of what I am saying right now.

Don't not do Yoga because I said don't do Yoga.

Don't not do Yoga.

-----------------------------

My story is that Yoga came to me. At a time that I needed it. I listened to myself. To that little voice that comes from a place somewhere in between my gut and my heart and it gets communicated in some language that I can't explain after some exchange between the two. And it helped me. This thing that moved my body and opened up my mind. This thing that many call Yoga (but that others call something else). And I'm not afraid to say it or talk about it (but only if you ask). And it gave me something that I needed, that I didn't know that I needed at the time. And I am so very grateful for it.

It helped me learn about myself. That thing that some call Yoga (but that others call something else). It helped me. To just be me. This sensation of my cells becoming light and fluid inside my body. It helped me learn. About the way my internal organs work. It made me love my body. In a way I didn't love before. It made me ask questions. And let go of some fears. It helped me soothe shoulder pain. And stomach rumblings. It also made me sad. And confused. And sometimes cry. And then it made me strong. And aware. And then humble. And then it fed my ego. And then it caused me separation. And then it changed. And then I changed. And then it made me patient and calm and forgiving and understanding again.

And it made me realize that my learning never ends.
That everyday I am something new.
Never perfect.

But always me.
And that's enough.

It made me flow.

And everyday I am still learning.
I am definitely not a Yogi.
Or a Yogini.
Or even a Yoga teacher.

I am just someone who practices.

And I am happy to share my story.
And even my practice.

Very happy to share.

I just want to make sure that we both know that this is my story.

And yours is different.

And I love that.

So please listen to you.
That space inside you that tells you what you need.

Get in touch with it.
First.

Because it was never my intention to make my story yours.
So don't do Yoga.

Or, do it.

Just don't listen to me.
Listen to you.

And if you'd like to share stories
Your story
And mine
And practices
And Yoga
Or not Yoga
That's okay with me, too

...I'd like that. A lot actually.

Feeling Cloud Foresty

Monte Verde, August 2014

Grayvin looks up at the blue-crowned motmot, gracefully perched at the end of a delicate tree branch. I am sure that he has seen this bird over a thousand times, yet he still stands there and looks at it with the most sincere awe and admiration.

He has been doing this since he was eight years old, he tells us. He grew up in this forest, searching for animals and insects, plants and parasites, amphibians and arachnids. Overtime, he has come to know just where to look to find the most unbelievably camouflaged organisms. He knows the best times to traverse the cloud forest in search of venomous snakes and colorful hummingbirds. He navigates with diligence and ease, yet full of inspiration and wonder.

Most importantly, Grayvin has developed a feeling.

Sure, he can give you the scientific name of all the plants and birds and fungi that you may point to. Of course, he can tell you the current number of snake species that exist in Costa Rica.  Without a doubt, he can spot you the male black-breasted wood quail amongst the covey. But what is most intriguing about Grayvin is that he lives in harmony with the forest.

He understands that to cut down a tree, is not just to lose a tree in the forest. It is to destroy a family. He understands the interdependence of the moss and the motmots. He understands the evolving ecosystems that give life to one another within the rainforest.

He feels it.

He says that when he is inside the forest there is energy. The soil and the plants can feel the vibrations of his footsteps. The animals are alerted by his presence. His idea of interconnectedness is not an abstract image. It is as real and tangible as the Guarumo tree that houses the two-toed sloth. He knows for certainty that as human beings we are part of nature because our very lungs expand to absorb the oxygen created by those same trees. This forest is our true existence.

The Cloud Forest Sage,
Sketch by Brian Carville

And for those few hours that we walk with Grayvin, I can feel it, too. I don’t need to remind myself “we are one”. I walk it.

Grayvin is many things: an amazing biologist, a well-studied environmental scientist, and a brilliant tour guide. However, to me he is something more: a sage. Grayvin tells me, "only about 30% of his learning he attributes to books and formal education.” The remaining 70% of his knowledge comes from direct observation of nature. It comes from being nature. 

This is what I call wisdom. It is a feeling.

And you can feel it, too. You just need to take a walk with him.

What Is This Paper Green Stuff?

"We hope it works out, too! We invested all of our love here," she says with sweet faith and excitement in her voice.

Before she even has the chance to finish her sentence, my mind fills in the word "money".

Caught off guard, I look up and smile. She said love.
I look at her and I see a light of gratitude in her eyes.
And when I hear the words she chose something shifts inside me.

What if it was all about love?

Even including that paper green stuff printed with the faces of a few fancy white men.

I've spent awhile fighting this eternal stomach ache associated with that thin slice of fabric that makes some people feel invincible and other peoples feel unworthy. How is it that something so materialistic can have the power to do this? I've often asked myself this.

This paper green stuff with script writing and encrypted codes...

It is an inanimate object, right?

So, who gives it the power to separate us? To cause us pain and hardship? To distinguish my worth from yours.

Look at those faces! Old, but without wrinkles. Such pose and demeanour. Blank stares and, oh! so white!

The faces of the US currency.
The faces of $ 17,656,649,899,999 international debt.

And, Oh, yes... please, young single-mother, be careful with your foot stamps!

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free..."

Who are we speaking to, Mother Liberty? 

When we say "your", which immigrants are we referring to that qualify for the living standards designed by our fancy-dressed, blank stared, eloquent white men?

I long to ask those that come, are you rejuvenated now? Are you rich? Are you still huddled together? Are you breathing free? Has our country showed you that we are a country that provides for the masses?

These are just the questions I ask.

It is not that I do not believe.
Or that I do believe.

I'm just curious.

I cannot accept everything I have been showed or read,
Told or sold...

Or else, hey, I may think that only fancy old white men deserve those sheets of green paper that give some a mansion and others a suicide.

Yet, what option do I have, really?

Reject it all?

And, what...move to the forest and live off the land?
Choose the life of a hermit...
Leave my family and friends
In the name of anti-consumerism, anti-capitalism, and world justice?

Will this bring peace?

To be honest, I am still not okay with either.

I do not want to (nor would I ever survive) alone in a forest.
Nor do I want to continue living in a world where the dollar separates us.

(rock---me---hard place)

However, young sweet Argentinian lady, whose twinkly eyes and pretty face are not printed on any green sheet of paper, has me thinking...

What if it was all about love?

So, while I am not the one to lead this revolution that takes down the
patriarchy
the white supremacists 
the consumers, the competitors,
the communists, the capitalists...

The social constructs of our society that have developed
over long periods
of unchecked fear

of the love 
of the masses
of the people

I would like to ask myself to experiment with a new relationship with this paper green stuff.

To view it at just another form of energy.
That only has the power that I assign to it.

Every time I pass it over to someone, let me ask myself, "Am I giving this with love?"

"Does this exchange of energy create love, or contaminate?"

When I give, am I also getting? Are we sharing? 
Is this for me, for you, for us...or for my ego? 

Are you a straight-faced, out-dated, staged, and wrinkle-free white-collared white man?*
Or are you a human being? A lover with a light in your eyes? 

Please take my best love and energy, young, sweet, inspiring Argentinian girl.
...It comes in the lame form of this paper green stuff
But it also comes from my heart

You invested "all of your love" there.

You made me a delicious avocado sandwich
You made me a nice morning
You made me smile

You gave me energy
You gave me an idea

You give love.
Thank you for this.

*Note: This is a reference to the images printed on US currency.

Today I Did Not Run

Today, I did not run.

I woke up, washed my face, brushed my dientes, and did not put on my shoes.

I stepped outside and walked across the cold, moist, ground. Little pebbles that were weaved into the soil pressed into the soles of my feet.

Most of the world was already awake. They were chirping and shining and brightening their colours. The people seemed to be sleeping. I wonder how and when we fell out of touch with this waking hour; This hour that is perfect for not running.

I found myself on the sand. There was a big blue body of water to my right and a shiny ball of fire hovering in the distance. My toes curled into the spaces that the tiny grains let me move. Just enough to hold me up, just enough to let me find my own balance.

This morning I did not think.

There was no road and much less a path.

However, there was a sign ahead that I could not read for it had no letters.

Who taught me this limiting language? 

It was calling me so I went, but I did not run.

The Earth moved below my feet, but I was floating, I swear! The salty sea air pumped in and out of my lungs and I heard the breath that was both mine and the ocean, but I did not tire.

A flock of pelicans skim the sea.
A fleet of palm trees do a slow dance.
A fresh wind plays in my hair.

I must be alive, I do not say to myself.

I just feel it.

It keeps moving me and I let it. It has something to do with how it feels beneath my bare feet, or the combination of colours around me, or maybe its this music all around me that plays in blissful harmony.

But I just do it, without thinking.
I do not run.

I am carried.
And I know this all sounds like a metaphor, but I am speaking quite literally.

And when I get back to the place that has been constructed to provide me shelter and recluse from this world that calls and carries me, I am covered in red spots.

And it itches like hell.

And, so, I guess this is life.

Sometimes, I don't know my path (although I refer to it quite often) and I don't have any idea where I am running (although it might look like I do) and it's all f*cking music to my ears (and often times full of really painful mosquito bites, and sand flies and scars)...

I'm just taking the steps the best way I know how.

A combination of the things that call me and move me
And a little fire inside me that says "go", "do", "be"!
And I try to listen to both

Not scratch so much
At those annoying little bites along the way
(although I sometimes do)

Just keep going

Running
or Not

But definitely moving
and letting myself be moved.

My Heart Does Not Cry For Robin Williams

My heart does not cry for Robin Williams.

I feel so sad. But my heart does not cry for Robin Williams. 

My heart was heavy last night when I heard the news. 

Robin Williams was a man committed to doing a lot of good in the world, beyond acting. However, he was best known as a man who could turn the corners of our mouths up and form wrinkles around our eyes. He was a man who brought many smiles and lots of laughter to people of all ages. He was a man who helped us forget about the weight of the world for some moments in time. He was a man who allowed us to not take life, nor ourselves, too seriously. He was a man who helped us forget, when that was what we needed. And he was a man who helped us remember, when that was what we needed. He was a Mrs. Doubtfire who made my sister's wig cool we she lost her hair as a 6-year-old. 

I don't have any idea what Robin Williams was going through.

I barely know anything about him.

Yet, my heart cries. 

But, I don't think it's crying for him, specifically.

Nor is it crying for the Israel and Gaza militants, who don't know how to engage in peace talks. 

For the Palestinians who sit beside their rubbled homes. 

For the innocent children, who most likely cannot yet define geographical borders, yet whom already are too familiar with war. 

My heart is not crying for a boy killed yesterday in El Salvador, by the gangs he didn't want to join.

Nor for the young girl who was raped when she crossed the border last month, hoping to find a job to send money to her daughter.

Nor does it cry for the mother who died recently in Liberia from Ebola, leaving her children lonely and worried.

My heart does not cry for the victims of Hiroshima, living a lifetime with the detrimental effects of radioactive chemicals ingrained in both their physical bodies and memories. 

Nor does it cry for the US soldiers, who helped fly the planes that dropped the bomb upon young-girl-trolley-drivers, trying to make a living. 

My heart does not cry for the bodies of fellow-New-Yorkers, who threw themselves from the burning buildings.

Nor does it cry for the fellow-New-Yorkers, who stereotype, generalise, and discriminate.

My heart does not cry for the refugees in northern Iraq.

Nor for the murder of another young black man. 

Nor for the low-income families who cannot afford anything but processed, poisoned and preservative-filled food. 

My heart cries for humanity.

For the one big heart of the world that beats inside all of us. 

For all the suffering. 

For the ways we have forgotten.

For the ways we have been distracted. 

For the ways that we continue to hurt others

Even though we know ourselves how bad it hurts to hurt.

At the end of the day we are all human. Equally human. 

We each have the capacity for good and evil - it just depends on how we choose to deal with what life gives us and how we use our experiences to love more... or fear more. And we each have this power and responsibility, equally, to choose. And so we each are so very important because we are all here beating together. 

But the media- it will tell us that Robin Williams matters more today.

Or that Gaza matters less. 

That Israel is evil.

And Costa Rica is happy.

That East Timor doesn't matter.

Or Sierra Leone doesn't affect us.

But the truth is, it is all one and the same. 

And I don't say this from a spiritual perspective.

Nor a scientific one.

I say it from a human perspective.

You can feel it, too. If you let go of your judgments and stop trying to fill the boxes that we have been taught to place things inside of.

When a man without a home helped me adjust my bicycle seat, I asked myself to stop thinking of him as a homeless man, with all the stereotypes that come attached to this, and recognise that he is just a man without a home. I don't know his story.

When a man who said mean words to me admitted that he grew up without a mother, I asked myself to be more gentle with people who have not had the opportunity to know the compassion that a mother can pass on. 

Sometimes, in life we are given the opportunity to really connect with people. We let our guards down, we become vulnerable. Sometimes, it happens by choice. You help someone with their bags and they, in turn, look up and you and thank you genuinely... and you feel something- a little tingle inside of you. Sometimes, it happens during a fight. Someone starts to cry and admits that they have never forgiven themselves for what they did to their past lover. And you suddenly lose your anger and hug. Sometimes, you ask someone how they can be so calm and composed all the time... and they tell you that one time, when they were stabbed by their own father, they were not as so. 

And I can't explain it through science nor with spirituality, but I think we all know that feeling: When something in us, deep within us, turns or tingles or clicks. And we say to ourselves: 

"Wow. He is a human being, Just like I am." 

So, my heart cries today.

Not for anyone specifically.

But for all of us equally. 

The media, society, our friends - they will all tell us things. Some may be true, some may be not, some we may agree with, some we may not. 

And we ALL make mistakes. We all have acted out of greed, out of selfishness, out of fear. 

The different experiences (good and bad) have shaped how we see the world today and how we treat each other. 

The important thing

Really,

Is to remember

That we all matter

Equally

As human beings. 

It SO matters what you do today

How you treat your neighbour

Or the man who drives your taxi

Because a little bit of compassion, and love, is contagious and it spreads. 

And because that heart that cries inside Robin Williams

Inside that child in Israeli

Inside that banana-field worker in Costa Rica

Is the same heart that cries inside you 

and inside me.

This Is Not My Bus Station

Why must there be 2 cities with the same name in 1 small country, and why doesnt the bus station named "The Caribbean"  take you to the one that is in The Caribbean? This is my question of the day and if you guessed that I went to the wrong bus station... and then traded a platano for a pair of head phones and had a staring contest with the man at the right bus station, then you, too, my friend have lived in Latin America.

Ironically, my last blog was about bus rides.

Turns out, i blogged too soon. todays entire bus experience may have been a bit more noteworthy than yesterdays.

Being a bit low on funds, the original plan was to walk to the bus station when I got to san jose from bus 1. However, hearing that the walk is rather dangerous and being a veteran of armed robberies, I decided to waste $8 to go to the wrong bus station, by taxi, have a small panic attack along the way and then get another taxi to go backwards to the right bus station, thereby saving $0 and gaining another wrinkle.

The pequeno panic attack came from the fact that taxi #1 decided to take a short cut down an abandonded graffiti'd city alley way which automatically triggered a (para)(?) Sympathetic response within me to "fight or flight", since I had been in this situation priorly in america central. So there I am, simultaneously dialing the first person I can think of in my phone, preparing for a tuck and roll car escape, and reaching into my mochila for my Leatherman and by the time I had all 3 listo we were out of the alley and into the wrong bus station.  My heart was still racing as I smiled awkwardly and handed the innocent driver his wage for taking me to the place I had no use in being.
The ticket lady smiled as she said "which puerto viejo?" Confirming what I already new and adding a talleymark to her list of gringas who longed to see the carribean sea but were headed instead to a farmland.

The second driver's taxi had a broken meter (claro) so I willingly paid him double the price for half the distance I paid last time so that I could back track to where I came from. Perfecto.

Finally, I'm at the right station, albeit in debt and in dolor de cabeza.

I treat myself to an ice cream and platanos porque olvidalo I need it and while waiting online for the bus the guy in front of me literally stares me in the face, about a foot away. I continue eating my ice cream casually and stare back because the ice cream is too good to stop and I'm too tired to be offended. He continues to follow me with his eyes as he walks away and so I continue stare too until finally I think he realizes I'm not gonna sleep with him and he carries on with his life before I interuppted it with my standing and my ice cream.

Finally, a harmless fellow approaches, trying to sell a plastic bag full of instantly-breakable electronics, hoping that was exactly what I came to the right bus station for. Since I inform him, after numerous sales-expert attempts at convincing, that its not, he moves on to letting me know that I don't need to eat. I should "stay skinny", give him my platanos and take a pair of bootleg headphones. I give him some platanos, informing him that I do, in fact plan to continue my life with alimentation. He says if I learn to love then I never have to wantaanything and I tell him he is right and we laugh knowing that he is right and know ing that we both want platanos and ice cream.

And then he leaves and i giggle and shake my head and a boy a few feet ahead interprets this as an invitation to check out my legs. This is immediately followed by him askig me if he could tell me how linda I am and how nice, too, and can he please have my Facebook? Honestly, No I don't want to share that info, I say. Bit...perhaps I want to sit next to him on tbe bus? No, just want to sleep, I say. Phone number? No.  Go out in San Jose sometime?

Hue la gran......

And finally, I'm here, sitting in paz, sola, on the right bus going to the right Puerto Viejo, wondering what a bore life would be if it were easy.

Life Partners. And Buses.

Everyone was standing there silent, in their own worlds, in this shared space.
Cell phones in hands, people-watching, baby-cradling, young lovers smooching.
The life of public transportation.
Stories in every nook and cranny.

"Look Mom, our bus is coming!" A little girl leans over the sideway curb as she tugs at her mother's hand.

A line forms. Everyone still silent, except for the thoughts and conversations stirring in their minds.

An old man begins to speak.
"Ladies first. Go ahead pretty ladies. You guys go first. I'll wait. Ladies first."

"But, Senor, this is the line for the San Jose bus. You go. We're not getting on this one." A young woman chimes up.

The old man chuckles and places his hands on her shoulders.
"Oh, well then God bless you."

"Que Dios te bendiga."
"God bless you."

He continues down the line with a cute grin on his face as he lays his weathered hand upon tense shoulders with blessings.

I choose a seat by the window. The wind blows in my hair as I unconsciously eaves drop on the conversations being held around me. My eyes are alive with the endless panorama outside the glass pane.

I am in love with this bus ride.
This journey.

I go back to El Salvador in some place within me.
Oh, so many buses.

Those infamous bus rides in El Salvador.

I don't think I loved them all, admittedly.

Maybe it had to do with that time a random lady handed me her baby and I was afraid I would drop him as the bus bumped down our rocky road. Maybe it had to do with the fact that there was a 4 person minimum to each person's personal space. Or the chickens. Most likely, it was the chickens.

Either way, stepping foot on that bus last week with the old man and his blessings, I smiled.


"Maybe she'll be European".
He said to me as I sat next to him on the couch that I longed to know for so many months, my body turned to face him, as he looked away. Sitting there admiring the perfection of his overgrown facial hair. 
As if these words were just words.
As if he imagined this were some movie, that I was watching in the cinema, hoping the girl there, that was me, would be strong and just pack up and go, knowing this wasn't her story. 


The town is full of people.
Selling fruit from wooden crates on roadside stands.
A fountain in the centre of a cobblestone path lined with walls dressed in paint.
Men whistle at me as I go by and say words that I choose not to hear.
There is hand holding and sweet caresses.
Some people look at me and smile as I go by.
Other people don't know I have been there.
Some say buenos dias.
Others snarl at my regards.

I like it: this town, this community.
Each in his or her own world.
Sharing space.

Living life the only way they know how.
I look up and I smile
at the ability to feel love.


His bus pulls away and I'm not sad.
It's not like the storyline of the movie. 
I feel full of life and okay and understanding.
Something in me wants to skip and it's not because of the leaving.
It is because of this loving
of life.

I love the bus rides.
I love the people on them and around them.
I love old people and their ways of being. I love babies and the way they hold nothing back. 
I love the angry people, in their own passionate way.

I love the people
I chose to have in my life
Who have shown me the areas
Where I have a story that I need to re-write. 


I guess it's true, that life is about the journey.
And the more you learn to love every step of the way,
The more free it will be.

I am still working on this, loving every step of the journey thing...

But I believe in it.

For if my lover is life
Then I'll never be alone.

So
I don't have a life partner
Not a European
Not an anyone

But
I have a partner I call life

And s/he makes space for me
To be alive
And to be happy

To grow
And to be free

S/he is not judgemental
S/he just gives me what I need to learn

And let's me be me.

A person
Who loves bus rides,
usually.
Who likes to sing in the shower
Who plays sports
And practices Yoga
Because these, too, are things that make her heart sing.

A person
Who gets angry
And is sometimes inappropriate
Who likes to read
And draw
And swim
And who likes to be alone.

A person
Who likes to share, too
That little light we all have within us
When our egos are tired
Or we are connected to our passion

That is the space
Love exists.

In you
In me
On bus rides

In life.

How Do You Make Love?

I want to make love the way you do.

You stand there and you wait.
With both dedicated patience and mindful seduction.
You burst with the colors of mangoes and mermaids and mystical fairytales.
Your fragrance permeates the receptors of those who long for you
Traveling to you on vibrations
That you emit from that place within you
where your own love is made.

Before we touch
We are already one.

Piedras Negras, Aug 2014

I want to make love the way you do.

Your stature is both gracefully confident and shamelessly vulnerable.
You know what it is that you want
That you need
And you will have it
For it comes from you from a place that is pure.

We do not rush
We savor every moment.

Your pose is steady and balanced
Yet flexible at the touch
So easily flowing to move with your partner
In a dance
That is never exhausting
Always exhilarating.





And he comes to you
For you called
And you let him land upon your silky petals
For you know you need him

And in this sacred space
There is an exchange

Of energy
Of necessities
Of pleasure
Of love.

And together you play
In this freedom that is both passionate and painful
Nectar and pollen
Seriously meaningful
Light-heartedly fun
And understandingly natural.

This is our basic need
This is our deepest delight.

And when you both go
On your separate ways
You take with you
This synergy

This love.

Never broken.
Never lost.
Never tired.
Never confused.
Never afraid.

Just wild.
And free.

I want to make love the way you do.